He kept his head lowered as he walked, his pace quickening as if the ground beneath him might give way if he paused. The intensity of Fuchiâs stare felt like a phantom blade lodged between his shoulder blades. He didnât dare to look back. He couldnât. The sun cast elongated shadows in front of him, reaching out like fingers attempting to drag him back into the past, back to the island, the blood, the moment his sword had sliced through flesh with a wet, final sound. Sagiriâs voice reached him, muffled as if he were submerged in water, but he couldnât make out the words. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless drumbeat of guilt.
So he continued onward. The past was behind him. He didnât want to dwell on it as he moved, each step a conscious cutting of the threads that sought to pull him back. The sidewalk lay ahead, ordinary and mundane, yet his vision narrowed until all he could see was the rhythmic flash of his shoes against the concrete. Left, right. Left, right. A mechanical rhythm to outrun the memories that lapped at his heels like ravenous tides. Sagiri's presence next to him was solid and silent; she understood better than to speak at this moment. The convenience store's fluorescent lights shone in the distance, a beacon of normalcy he clung to with desperate concentration.
As he approached, the automatic doors of the convenience store hissed open, enveloping him in the sterile glow of fluorescents and the artificial chill of the refrigerated air. He grabbed a basket almost instinctively, his fingers tightening around the plastic handle until it creaked under the pressure. The aisles unfolded before him, neat, predictable, lined with packaged normalcy, yet his pulse refused to calm. He concentrated on the rhythm of his footsteps against the linoleum, the sound of his sleeve brushing against a shelf of instant noodles. Left. Right. Left.
His basket clattered against the checkout counter, its contents meticulously arranged, reminiscent of the precision he once used to sharpen his blade. Two cans of black coffee, bitter, no sugar, because sweetness felt like a luxury he hadnât earned. A packet of salted rice crackers, the type that crunched loudly enough to drown out unwanted thoughts. And a single, overpriced bento, its plastic wrap shining under the fluorescent lights like a mockery of a home-cooked meal. He stared at it, the heat lamps above casting a greasy sheen over the teriyaki chicken, and wondered absently if Fuchi had ever eaten something like this in his past life.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the city's hum and leaving only the whisper of Sagiri's socks against the hardwood. He stood frozen in the genkan, his shoes still on, fingers twitching at his sides as if expecting a sword hilt to appear. The scent of lemon cleaner and the faint musk of old books lingered in the air, ordinary, domestic smells that should have been comforting. Instead, they made his ribs ache with a mix of longing and revulsion.
âI am sorry, that I have not been myself today.â